


The Mystery of Dunwurst and the Adventures that Follow

by WrittenInMyPants (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/WrittenInMyPants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just the day before, the last time John had been dragged from his slumber and brought to the blinding summer light by the devil himself, Sherlock needed the doctor's help with removing a snake from a cardboard box in some abandoned building. He was half awake for it and remembered little, spending the rest of the night and early morning in a bar.</p><p>Now, John wanted nothing more then to remove the pistol from his bedside table's drawer and plant a hole deep into his companion's brilliant head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mystery of Dunwurst and the Adventures that Follow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the part of me who has always wanted to do something extraordinary -- i think this counts](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+part+of+me+who+has+always+wanted+to+do+something+extraordinary+--+i+think+this+counts).



> This is based slightly off of The Adventure of the Speckled Band. Actually, it is a lot based off of TAotSB...but not really noticeable unless you’ve read it. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the first chapter of many to come.
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> -Marie

In the room where Dr. John Watson slept, early in the morning of a fine, mid-April day, Sherlock Holmes crept in to wake him. He pinched the doctor's arm, the sleeping man stirring. Sherlock shook his shoulder, and John opened his eyes, erratic, squinting into the light. Sherlock flicked the corners of his mouth up in amusement, but otherwise remained a bastard. John sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “What is it?” John asked. This was the third day in a row Sherlock had awoken him at an unusually early hour—and it was always for some incredibly stupid reason.

Just the day before, the last time John had been dragged from his slumber and brought to the blinding summer light by the devil himself, Sherlock needed the doctor's help with removing a snake from a cardboard box in some abandoned building. He was half awake for it and remembered little, spending the rest of the night and early morning in a bar.

Now, John wanted nothing more then to remove the pistol from his bedside table's drawer and plant a hole deep into his companion's brilliant head.

Sherlock stepped back, spinning around and opening John's drawers. Sherlock pulled out a pair of socks and fresh underwear, then moved to John's closet as he spoke. “We have a visitor!” He said cheerfully, holding up a light-brown sports jacket and throwing it at John. He caught it and cleared his throat, checking the time.

“This—“ John eyed his clock again. Six-o-four (?!). “This early?”

“Miss Stiles is insistent that she meet with us right away.” Sherlock replied quickly, muffled as he reached into the back of John's closet, pulling out a navy-blue dress shirt and a worn-out, black belt. He tossed them on the bed, then he closed the closet door and looked over the slacks which hung off the back. He murmured, “That'll do.” and, passably upset, set them on the bed with the rest of John's things.

“And you need me?” John stretched, hand lifting up the shirt and sighing as he dropped it back onto the bed, exhausted.

“Of course I need you, John. That's why I'm here right now. If I didn't need you I'd have solved the case already!” Sherlock said jovially, fixing himself in the mirror beside the door and, noticing the dull setup of john's bedroom, began to leave.

Really? Sherlock thought, a little angry. All of this room and he's not one experiment! Waste of space.

“So you don't need me, but you want me?” John teased.

What he did not expect was the seriousness on Sherlock's face as he turned back in the threshold of the door and replied, somewhat wistfully, “Something of the sort.” John sat uncomfortably for a few seconds before Sherlock continued, “Now put your clothes on. I'm making coffee.”

When John entered their flat, it was clean. And he hated to think that it was Ms. Hudson, but that was the only possible way, he thought, that it could be so clean. He didn't have time to worry, though, when his eyes caught on Ms. Stiles. She was beautiful, not much older than himself—no, not at all, but she could pass for young lady. Despite the obvious stress she was experiencing that showed on her face, she looked perfectly healthy. Ms. Stiles wore a black dress that stopped just at her knees, red-orange hair tied up in a neat bun and her make-up simple. Her black flats shined in the foggy morning light in their flat. John took the seat at the table, laptop open with a word document ready to type everything she said.

A cup of coffee sat next to his computer, and John remembered what his priorities were. Despite how boring and dangerous his life with Sherlock could get, he loved the excitement and discovery involved everywhere else, and if that meant sacrificing having a partner, then so be it. It was probably best for anyone willing to be his partner, anyway. John would only pride himself on this until someone, which at the moment was Ms. Stiles, showed interest in him.

Moreover, John could never give up what he created with Sherlock—for Sherlock.

“Ms. Stiles, why have you come to meet with us so early?” Sherlock said.

“Haley, please,” She said, sipping her coffee. John yawned, but tried to hold it in. Sherlock shifted in his seat, eyeing John and then looking away when their gazes met. “My sister was...murdered, two years ago. I need your help.”

Sherlock smirked, thinking, Straight to the point; this may not be so awful after all.

There was dead silence on Sherlock's end. John was thinking of something to say when Sherlock said, “No, John.” John wasn't even surprised anymore. 

“And you've come to us for this now? Why?” John asked, ignoring Sherlock.

“No, John. Not about her sister. That's why I told you not to say it. It's about Ms. Stiles— this Ms. Stiles.” John sat back in his chair. Yeah, he definitely wanted to put a gun to that man's head. To Haley, Sherlock continued, “I'm going to need to know everything in the greatest detail you can possibly give. Start from the beginning. I want backgrounds on everything. Anything you can recall; anything you thought, smelled, tasted, saw, wanted to do that night. Everything. Tell me everything.”

“Um, okay. Well, I grew up in a rich family; great mum and dad, an older sister. We had servants and maids. Life was wonderful. And it was all because of my mother—my father married rich, despite the trend. He relied so much on her wealth because he came from having nothing to having everything and more once he married her. He's a humble man, really. He never didn't say his pleases or thank yous. Every night before bed he'd bring us water. Still does. Said it keeps us ready to fight away the bad things in our dreams. Not anymore, but when we were young and believed it. Then my mother died of a seizure and left us with nothing. Our father had moved into a different room after Mum's death. We got to keep the house thanks to my mother's father, but we couldn't afford to pay the servant's salaries or the maid's wages. Most of them left before we got the chance to fire them, before they even knew Mum was dead.

“Me and my sister did all of the housework after that. We didn't have time to be children and we were only ten and thirteen. Our father grew bitter and drunk,” She paused, and John looked over at Sherlock. He'd been unusually silent, and that worried him. Sherlock seemed thoroughly consumed with thinking. He waved a hand for Haley to continue. “Molly, my older sister, had left to go live with some Swedish man who promised her everything, despite how much I begged. I was only seventeen when my father had planned to remarry. She wasn't rich, but she was nice and calm and let my father yell at her without reaction. I felt bad for her, tried to make sure she was alright whenever my father went off again. It was no use and one day she just, left. She wrote me a note, but...I never told anyone about it. It wasn't important enough.”

“And you kept this from your father? On purpose?” John asked, genuinely curious.

“Yes. He would have died if he'd have seen what was written. It was rushed, like she was running. I was in school when she left, so I can only imagine what caused her to leave. My sister came back, broken hearted. It took days of crying myself dry and pleading to get my father to forgive and let her stay. And a few months later my father snapped, always stayed in his room and never came out unless to see a visitor or go for a walk around the creek behind our house. He brings us—well, me—water again. And nothing's really changed since then.”

“What of the night she died?” Sherlock said, pushing her along.

“It was past mid-night. She'd always complained that her room was too cold, and that she didn't feel safe. It was our mother's old room. It was the only room that wasn't empty when Molly came back home. After she'd left, my father had sold everything which belonged to her. That night, Molly said she was feeling tired and dizzy, so she went to lie down. Then, I heard a terrible scream and I ran to her room. She opened the door and staggered out, clinging to me. She said, “Haley, listen—” I thought she was just being stupid but then she started shaking, violently. Her body locked up and she fell to the floor, face bright red. She was foaming at the mouth, her skin dry and more wrinkled than I remembered. I'd have sworn she'd aged. I thought it was a seizure but Mum didn't do that, and our family doctor told us that the genetic disease our mother had skips a generation, so Molly didn't have it. I do, though.”

“I noticed.” Sherlock mumbled, but Haley didn't hear, only John.

“I phoned the police, and when they picked up my father ran from his room, robe in his hand and held my sister. I could hardly breathe I was crying so much. The police knocked on the door and I answered. Then we got to her room and my dad was just, lying there, unconscious next to her. They'd thought he had died as well.”

“Anything else important?”

Haley looked offended. “Well, when the last police officer left the next day, he told me that he didn't think it was safe to stay in the house.”

“Did he say why?” John inquired, fingers tapping pathetically on the keypad.

“He said the foundation was old and it was bad luck. He looked at me weirdly and for a second I could've sworn that I knew him.”

“What is this house?” Sherlock asked, fingers steepled under his chin, legs folded neatly beneath him.

“Dunwurst Manner. It's old and hidden, you've probably never seen it.”

“No,” Was the reply, short and effete. “No, I haven't. Not in person. But I have seen pictures of it. It's a very old building, is it not?”

“Yes, quite old. I'm surprised the walls aren't crumbling as we speak!”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, chest caving inward as he exhaled a sigh, but making no more sound for a few moments. “Yes. That's all I'll be needing to hear. Thank you.” Sherlock stood, buttoning his blazer and smiling.

“Well, aren't you going to say something about it? Will you need anything from me?”

“Some time to think would be lovely. Also, is there a date when me and Dr. Watson could have a look around the house? Preferably soon.”

“Er, yes. Tomorrow my father will be at a meeting for a few hours. Will that be enough time?”

Sherlock confirmed boastfully that it would be more than enough time, and after a few short nods and some quick goodbyes and thank yous, Haley had left, and the mystery of Dunwurst lay before them, unsolved.

 

After three hours of mysteriously trudging off to investigate God knows where, Sherlock returned to the flat, yellow file folder tight in his grip. “What's that? John asked, closing his laptop.

“Mother Stiles' will.”

“Where on Earth did you get that?”

“An old mate.” John narrowed his eyes. “John— It's not important.” Sherlock moved in front of him, kneeling before him and opening the folder on John's thighs, “It says, essentially, that the inheritance distributed to the daughters should be—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Indeed. The father, I assume, is the most likely candidate for a murderer, wouldn't you agree?” John nodded. “And now we know that he would have motive. In the event of their premature deaths, the money would go to the father.”

“So, you think it was— Um...”

“Richard Stiles. It is a possibility, but there is a lot I don't yet know.” And this was true. While Sherlock was brilliant in his deductions he did need something to deduce from, and he was surprisingly lacking in that which was most obviously missing.

I believe, of course, that Richard is a possible suspect, Sherlock told John, but also that there is one other person with motive. Haley. When speaking with us about her sister moving to Sweden, Haley did not look or sound happy. (Why would she in the first place? John asked, but Sherlock ignored him.) Her body was positioned defensively, and her eyes grew dark, her tone stern and purposefully stable. This could just be her anger towards what Molly left Haley to—all of the wonderful memories being dragged from the part of her mind that put behind her all of the horrible things she lived through—or it could be a motive for murder. Albeit an extreme one, but I've seen enough to know that one must expect the improbable—no matter how improbable.

“Or Haley could also want the money, and she's showing off.”

“Eeeh, highly unlikely seeing as she came to us before killing her father.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because the sooner he dies, the sooner she gets her money.”

“She did seem to hate her father when she was talking about him, though. Maybe she plans to do it after you've dismissed it.”

“What are you even saying? John, she's obviously protecting her mother, but she could also be protecting her father. So, she's either planning to kill her father, she killed her sister or her father killed Haley— no, Molly.”

“What are you saying? That doesn't make sense. You're defending both sides.”

“What? No I'm not. You are.”

“What?”

“Never mind, John. We've got a case! And I need data.”

“Yes. Well, hopefully you'll get all of the information you need tomorrow.”

Sherlock straightened his back, face confused. “Tomorrow? Why should I have to wait?”

“Because breaking and entering is illegal, and you are one strike away from giving The Yard a permanent panic attack.”

“That encourages more than discourages me, John.” Sherlock mumbled, striding to his room to change. John leaned back in his chair, looking at the probably-stolen papers in his lap and sighing.

 

The old manner was well hidden and very, very old. There were acres of green fields and woods all around, and only one definite path which went from the driveway to the road two or three miles away. The brick was covered in vines and moss, the wooden stairs leading to the main doors partially broken and soaked through by rainwater. On the outskirts of the front yard were bushes of bright red roses and vibrant green leaves. It was the image of a horror movie, but it was still beautiful. Once they exited the cab they had taken, John walked slightly ahead of Sherlock, eyes scanning everything in wonder. It was mesmerizing, the whole lot. 

Sherlock caught up with him before they reached the doors, and they continued to walk in silence. Sherlock knocked, very lightly it seemed, but Haley opened the door. She had been crying, her eyes red at the edges and mouth shadowed by the ghost of a frown.

“Oh, thank God you're here! The most awful thing happened!” Haley exclaimed, pushing them outside further and over the lawn, closing the door quietly.

“What is it?” John asked, voice soft but guarded, ready to fight.

“Her father knows we're visiting. But he doesn't know who we are, or why we're here.” Sherlock said, eyes on John.

“How on bloody Earth did you know that?” Haley's eyes widened and she looked almost angry.

Sherlock took a breath and John stopped him. “No, Sherlock. We need to investigate, not show off.” Sherlock sighed, deflated.

“Is Mr. Stiles knowing about us going to affect our investigation?” John asked. It felt nice, being the detective for once.

“No, no. He said he'd back back as quickly as he could, and if you aren't gone by then he will press charges for trespassing.”

“But we're hardly trespassing, are we, Ms. Stiles?” Sherlock said, smiling. “We won't be here long, anyway, so there's nothing to worry about.”

“I wouldn't underestimate him.” Haley warned.

“Then we'd better get started!” said John.

 

“Lestrade, you've got a case.” Sherlock said tightly, sitting on Greg's desk.

“What?”

“A women's sister, murdered, two years ago. This sister complained of headaches and her room being too cold the few nights before she died. Now the sister who is still alive, Ms. Stiles, is experiencing the same thing.”

“And you need me?” Greg said, sly smile smothered on his face. Sherlock sighed.

“Yes.” Greg sat up straight and took the case file Sherlock threw on his desk.

“So, you think she—Haley—could be next. Do you have any suspects?”

“Haley and her father.”

“She's a suspect and she came to you?”

“Look at her mother’s will.” After a few minutes Lestrade's eyes popped out of his skull.

“Holy shit.”

“Indeed. Now, I need these supplies as soon as physically possible.”

“If I was her, I'd be a suspect. Damn.”

“I need these supplies immediately,” Sherlock repeated, placing the piece of paper with the list on Greg's head. He grabbed some tape and stuck it on there, as well—for good measure. “Drop them off at 221b.” He added as he crossed the threshold of the office door.

“Yeah, alright, but you expect me to just give you a gun?”

Sherlock turned around, murderous eyes locked on Greg. “I will need one for the vigil.”

“What exactly do you plan on doing?”

“It's obvious.” Sherlock left. Lestrade rubbed his face and looked at the list, as if the things written just got ten times more unreasonable than they were before.

 

“So, she's going to text you when her father's asleep, and then we break in?”

“Yes, I just said that, didn't I?” They could barely see one another in the darkness, and they were far away enough from the house that they couldn't be seen, but John had never felt more like a pervert in his entire life.

“This feels wrong.” John said, and then Sherlock put a hand over his mouth. John asked Sherlock what the hell he was doing, but it was muffled, leaving Sherlock to ignore it. Sherlock put his lips next to John's ear, and his warm breath tickled his ear. It felt weird. He wanted Sherlock to stop or he was going to start laughing. His lips hurt.

“John, there's someone behind the house. They saw us. Get out your gun, do not speak.”

John nodded, taking a deep breath and pushing himself off of the side of the plastic shed.

Sherlock got a text.

“Let's go. The sooner we get inside, the sooner we can solve this.”

“Right.” John said. A Sherlock-Grinch smile, and a curt nod from john, and they were running.


End file.
